Connor digs his fingertips into his scalp wishing the shampoo could wash away the angry thoughts that ricochet around his mind. He presses down harder and harder until his knuckles ache and his bones feel as though they might snap. Releasing the pressure on his head, he twists the temperature dial, forcing himself to stand still while thousands of red-hot droplets of water slice at his skin like razor blades. His muscles tense, his jaw clamps shut suppressing the scream of pain that builds and builds deep in his gut. Pain is the only thing that stops his thoughts. Soon, he begins to sway, black flecks dancing in front of his eyes. Just before he passes out he yanks the dial the opposite way. The icy water is a punch to the stomach, snatching his breath. Rather than cooling his skin it hurts and he takes pleasure in that. It’s no less than he deserves.
He sets the water again to warm. Spotify has been streaming ‘AM’ through his phone on repeat and he doesn’t know how long he’s been in the cubicle. It’s like his own personal time machine. He daydreams he can travel back to Easter and change everything. Sometimes it’s the thump on the door from his mum or dad that drags him into the present and he realizes he’s been standing under the jets of water for over half an hour, minty shower gel frothing around his feet.
‘Do you know how much the water bills are?’ Dad would complain.
‘Leave him alone, he’s making up for all the years he’d sit on the edge of the bath pretending to wash.’ Mum would smile at him.
Dad used to be the funny one, now they’re both as stressed as each other but Mum’s better at hiding it. She thinks Connor doesn’t notice the black crescents that hang under her eyes like bruises. She thinks Connor’s fooled by her fake smiles that don’t crinkle her skin, her mouth curved, the rest of her face static and stiff, like the Mr Potato Head he and Kieron used to play with. Sometimes when she fakes a grin he longs to reach out and touch her lips, moulding them back to the thin straight line they naturally fall in nowadays. Christ, no wonder he finds it impossible to talk about his emotions. Nobody in this family discusses anything that matters. It’s Ryan’s dad, Fergus, who sporadically checks that Connor is okay, asks whether he wants to talk but then he was there that day too, supervising, so perhaps he feels in some way responsible even though he wasn’t. His own parents pretend it never happened but it did and, because of him, things are a million times worse than they were.
Unimaginable.
Unfixable.
Reluctantly, he switches off the water, releasing a cloud of steam as he pushes open the cubicle door. He roughly dries himself before padding into his room, feeling a snap of rage as he sees Mum bent over his computer, scrolling down his screen.
‘What the actual…’ He marches over to his desk and slams his laptop shut, almost trapping her fingers.
‘Connor, I…’ A flush stains her cheeks. ‘I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to invade your privacy. I knocked your desk when I opened the window and your laptop just came on.’
‘Right.’
‘Are you ready for tomorrow?’ Briefly, she flashes her Mr Potato Head smile before it slips away. ‘School?’ she adds as though he’s forgotten.
As if.
‘I don’t want to go.’
‘But it’s your last year. Your A levels.’
‘I’ve missed too much.’
‘But—’
‘Will you LISTEN!’ The thought of facing the other kids, the teachers, conjures a hot panic that flies out of his mouth disguised as anger.
Mum gives a barely distinguishable nod of her head. Her hands nervously wringing together.
Connor lowers his voice, not wanting his fury to drift down the landing to Kieron’s room. ‘I want to leave. Get an apprenticeship.’
‘In what? You have a dream, Connor. You can’t abandon it now.’
A sadness expands inside him as he remembers what he’d been working towards. It’s gone, the passion he once felt for medicine. He’d longed to be a medical scientist, not the person who would treat symptoms like Kieron’s but someone who might discover a cure for PSC and other diseases.
It seems wrong now to admit he wants to reach his goals, as if he has no claim to a full and happy life.
Mum speaks again. ‘You want to go to uni—’
‘I don’t.’ He’s no longer shouting.
‘Kieron would give anything to go back to school tomorrow.’ She covers her mouth with her hand as soon as the words fire from her lips. Connor glares at her, hating her, but he softens when he sees that she hates herself enough for the both of them.
He despises her and he loves her. He wants her to suffer and yet he doesn’t. He wants to push her away but he so badly needs a hug.
Over these past few months she’s been slowly unravelling and as often as she tells Connor that it wasn’t his fault, he can’t look her in the eye and tell her the same although he knows she longs to hear it from him. Needs to hear it from him. Still he stabs the sharp pin of blame into her again and again with more force than necessary, the way he had once tried to fix the tail onto the paper donkey she had carefully drawn for his birthday party.
She looks so small. So tired.
‘How did it go at the hospital?’ His words are a white flag.
Her body droops – a balloon released of air. This time her brief smile is genuine. Grateful Connor isn’t picking a fight.
‘It was…’ She looks at him helplessly.
‘Mum, I’m not a child any more. Tell me what happened.’
‘Dr Peters says that Kieron isn’t at the stage of needing a transplant.’
‘And you?’ Connor asks. ‘What do you think?’ He sees the surprise on her face and notes her hesitation before she replies as though she’s saying what she should, rather than what she actually feels.
‘Maybe I’m overreacting and it is a little soon.’
‘But… four more years, Mum.’ It hangs over them.
‘Potentially. It won’t come to that. Mr Peters is certain and we have to trust him. He’s the expert.’
‘But you’re—’
‘About to start dinner. Kieron wants you to go and see him, okay?’ She glances out of the window, chewing her lip nervously, before she leaves.
‘Hey.’ Connor pokes his head around Kieron’s door.
‘Connor!’ The joy in Kieron’s voice is palpable. Connor knows that in his younger brother’s eyes he is Santa Claus, Luke Skywalker and James Bond all rolled into one. Connor plucks the paperback from this brother’s hands. ‘I’ll read to you.’ He settles himself on the bed, swinging his legs up, and clears his throat in readiness for the voices he’ll do for each of the characters, but before he begins he double-checks.
‘Are you positive you want this one? We both know the story off by heart now.’
‘But I love it.’
‘Are you sure it’s not just Jennifer Lawrence you love?’ Connor raises his eyebrows as he tilts his head towards the poster of Katniss Everdeen, crossbow in her hands.
‘A bit.’ Kieron blushes. ‘What’s it like?’
‘What’s what like?’
‘You know…’ Kieron’s eyes flicker to the open door, reassuring himself Mum isn’t hovering on the landing, the way she sometimes does. ‘Kissing and stuff.’ He lowers his voice to a whisper. ‘Sex.’
‘Whoa!’ Connor holds out his hands. ‘Easy there.’
‘Tell me.’
‘What makes you think I know about… sex.’
‘You know everything.’ Again that unwavering, misplaced trust in him.
‘You’ll find out for yourself soon enough, Kieron.’
‘I might not.’ Kieron’s optimism slips along with the duvet as he sits up. ‘I might not live that long.’
‘Don’t be so dramatic, idiot,’ Connor says, hoping his voice doesn’t betray his own fear. He starts to repeat the words that he has endlessly read on Google. ‘Your prognosis is—’
‘Connor. Don’t. Just don’t.’
Connor reaches for his brother’s hand, their fingers linking together. Kieron is always hopeful, never self-pitying. Connor wonders whether that’s his default setting or whether he’s also wearing a mask. Putting on a brave face. He shouldn’t have to pretend.
Connor feels sad and angry and helpless.
He feels all of those things again. He can’t help pulling away, standing up.
‘Please don’t go. Tell me what it was like… with Hailey.’
At the mention of her name, Connor pinches the skin on his arm, digging his nails in, welcoming the pain.
The punishment.
‘Connor?’ Kieron prompts.
‘I… Another time?’
Images strobe. Hailey’s face pale, worried. Ryan and Tyler urging her on. The pleading look in her eyes as she turned to him. His indecision – his girlfriend or his friends – the nod of his head. It’ll be okay.
But it wasn’t okay.
It isn’t.
‘I… I’ve got to go.’ He turns his back on his brother and stalks out onto the landing but the memories, the memories come with him.
Back in his room, he opens his laptop once more and studies her Facebook page. The photos of them together, his arm awkward around her shoulders. Inexperience and hope shining from their eyes. He clicks on Messenger and sends two words:
I’m sorry
Just like all his other messages, they remain unread.